


However Hard You Try

by Justgot1, NoStraightLine



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/F, F/M, Halloween, M/M, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-29
Updated: 2013-11-01
Packaged: 2017-12-30 20:33:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1023082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Justgot1/pseuds/Justgot1, https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoStraightLine/pseuds/NoStraightLine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i> Do you know the big problem with a disguise, Mr. Holmes? However hard you try, it's always a self-portrait.<i>  –Irene Adler</i></i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

31 October  
10:17 p.m.

He wasn’t staring.

Except...it was impossible to look away from what should have been a train wreck of a Halloween costume. Well, he said costume, and this wasn’t staring, he was gathering data: black leather skirt clinging from hipbones to knees, and a black leather bustier hooked together from ribs to breasts. The skin tight fit meant bespoke tailoring. Black boots laced to her knees, black leather gloves sheathed her arms to the elbows, contrasting with the pale skin gleaming at her upper arms and shoulders, her waist, black kohl around her eyes, and the shocking confidence of blood-red lipstick.

Deduction? Not a costume. It shouldn’t work, and yet…he was staring.

She looked at him. Smiled. Except it was more about her eyelashes than her mouth, her rather perfect mouth, cool and challenging and aloof all at once.

_Stop staring._

He stopped. Watched John chat up a woman in a traffic warden uniform. Boring. Looked again, because she was the only intriguing thing in the room. The outfit needed a riding crop to complete it, but she didn’t seem to have one. He did. Sterilized it after the last trip to the morgue, even. Perhaps he could…

No.

He slid her glance from the corners of his eyes, this time at her profile because she’d turned to get another shot. Funny, he would have bet his mobile she didn’t usually partake, let alone do shots of expensive whiskey, but there was always something. Her hair coiled down from her head to lay against her collarbone. Her breasts lifted with each breath, in, out, slow, assured as she raised the glass, then tossed back the shot and licked the last taste from her lips. One black-gloved finger swiped under her lower lip, easy, confident, wicked.

This was no costume donned for Lestrade’s Halloween party, and this was a very, very large something to have missed. Desire coiled low in his belly, around his throat, as if he’d swallowed the shot himself. He was definitely, undeniably staring.

She turned, caught him out, and held his gaze with nothing but challenge. He looked away, felt his cheeks heat. Out of shame because he backed down? Perhaps. A little. A very little. What was the rest?

Arousal. Heat in his blood, pounding at his temples, throat, chest. Cock. Response. How unexpected. 

Her gaze changed again, aloof and assessing, as if he might be found wanting as it touched on his mouth, his hips, then and only then, his eyes. His back brain went on full alert, sirens blaring, recognizing a predator even as his rational mind told him he was being ridiculous. This was a Halloween party. John wore his desert combat uniform, chatting with Lestrade, dressed as a pirate. The small living room held a French maid, a ninja, Sally Donovan in a patrol uniform, a pudgy man in a chef’s hat and apron, other idiots. Sarah Sawyer was the only other person sensible enough to come dressed as an adult. Costumes were also ridiculous, a way to playact childish fantasies that should have long since been set aside. 

Or a way to enact adult fantasies more recently discovered in the last few...seconds.

She was still watching him, a smile he couldn’t read tugging at the corners of her red, red mouth. Was she...did she find him amusing?

Her smile grew, as if she read his astonishment and grew even more amused. She crooked her index finger at him. Imperious. Completely out of character. Yes. He would talk to her, attempt to discern exactly why the costume changed her so completely. He would do his research, identify the catalyst, then drag John home before he became so intoxicated he did something completely out of character.

He set his glass of wine down on the sideboard pressed into service as a bar and crossed the living room, but as he approached, she turned for the back bedroom. Her hips swayed in the supple leather, the pale skin of her spine both vulnerable and self-assured. He followed, because this became more and more interesting with every passing moment.

Once inside the bedroom, she pointed one black-gloved finger at the bed. "Sit down.”

He sat. Folded like a house of cards, actually, onto the bed while she closed the door.

No lock. Party noises outside the door, the “fun” continuing without them. He opened his mouth to ask his first question _How long have you lived this double life?_

"Shut up," she said.

Astonished, he shut his mouth.

Two steps forward and she stood between his legs. In a heartbeat he became desperately aware that his legs were spread, thighs open and vulnerable, and she wore fishnet stockings. Trite, cliched, fishnet stockings, her skin would be hot to the touch through them, _smooth broken by even diamonds of twisted fibers..._

The leather bodice creaked as she shifted her weight to one hip. "Stop thinking," she said.

Her leather-clad index finger traced his lower lip, the scent of soft skin all around, in his nose and mouth and brain, deep in his brain, he hadn’t known about this, about her, about himself....

Her fingers closed in his hair. "I said stop thinking."

One not-quite-gentle tug and his brain shut down to the animal stem, recording like prey. His heart rate kicked from resting to flight, the instinct to bolt one he controlled just as she did it for him.

With the hand in his hair. Keeping him on the bed, jerking his head back, baring his throat.

His jaw dropped in shock, or arousal, or both. A sound vibrated into the air. Definitely not a groan, definitely not from his throat.

Her other hand slid along his jaw to his shirt, where she went to work on the buttons, baring his chest. She bent enough to unfasten the last buttons, giving him a glimpse of cleavage as she jerked his shirttails from his trousers, putting her mouth so close to his he could smell the Macallan scotch, feel the heat. The smell of her, vanilla and skin and command. The sheer visceral thrill of surrender sent a bolt of lust straight to his cock. His hips jerked, seeking contact.

Another highly amused smile. "Back you go."

She was pushing on his chest and pulling on his hair when she spoke, so he did, landing awkwardly on his back. She followed him down, hiking up her skirt, the leather susurrating, the gleam of her teeth making his heart kick every time his back brain registered them. Fight or flight gave way to fuck when she set her mouth to the pulse pounding at the base of his throat and sucked.

"Oh, God," he groaned when she took her weight on one hand and opened his trousers with the other.

"Shh," she growled. "Lie still, unless you prefer an audience."

White light flooded his brain, images on the screen, someone _watching_ , and she laughed again. “Maybe next time. If you’re good.”

Then her leather-encased fingers gripped his cock, the pressure unexpected as she tugged his foreskin up over his glans. He jerked at the sudden, intense pleasure, and definitely, definitely groaned. She lifted herself over him and took him on one slow motion, slick walls clinging, pressure and heat and glide, paused while he twitched and remembered to breathe, then lifted herself, easing his foreskin on the upstroke.

This time she caught his moan with her palm. Her glove held the scent of his precome. Another groan rumbled up from deep in his chest.

"You're too bloody noisy, Mr. Holmes," she murmured as she rode him.

The grabby impulse seized him, and he slid his hands up her thighs _muscles flexing under stretched netting stockings Christ bare spread thighs and no knickers Jesus_ to her waist. She laughed, low and rough, and picked up the pace. "Be good. No coming until I do."

"Please," he said, into her palm, because it had been so long, so very, very long, knowing she couldn't hear him and wouldn't care if she did. "Oh, please."

Merciless, she didn't rush, let him jerk and shudder and tighten underneath her, fighting to stay in control while she took her pleasure. When she came, tight leather and the swell of her breasts hot and quivering against his chest, she scraped her teeth down the side of his neck. He trembled, riding the edge. 

"Oh, well done," she said, then used the hand on his mouth to lift herself upright. One big aftershock shuddered through her, followed by a low, delighted laugh, and then she tilted herself off him.

He registered sounds over the clamour of his denied orgasm, seething in the tip of his cock. “Please,” he whispered.

She said nothing, perhaps because she couldn’t hear him over the flex and shift of leather as she adjusted her clothes. "My stockings are quite twisted, you naughty boy."

In the time it took her to straighten her clothes, he'd managed to sit up. She opened the door, magnificently unconcerned who might see him like this. Cock erect and gleaming. Well-used. Obedient.

She turned back, her gaze skimming him, delightedly knowing as it lingered on his hand on his thigh, flexing towards his erection, waiting for permission.

“Go on,” she said.

He gripped his shaft, stroked hard and fast. Seconds. All he needed was ten seconds of her watching in the light from the hallway, the party mere feet away, oh God _ohgodohgodohgodyes_.

The world disappeared in a whirl of pulse and lights. He managed to stifle his shout as he jerked and came _hard_ , so _hard_ , shoulders bowing, astonished, annihilated.

When he opened his eyes, she was still standing there. It didn’t take a proper genius to recognize her expression. She had his number down to the tenth decimal.

“In future, you can get your own coffee, darling,” Molly said, and disappeared back down the hall.


	2. Chapter 2

31 October  
10:55 p.m.

An orgasm really did put a bounce in a girl's stride. Molly made her way to the bar and slid into an open spot next to John.

"Molly," he said with the extravagant precision of the freshly plastered. "Hiiiiii."

"Hi," she said.

"Hi."

"Hi."

Second time around the greeting seemed to register. John leaned a little closer. "You look different."

"It's the lipstick," she said, then reached past him to pour herself another Macallan. Detective Inspector Lestrade had done things very properly. "My mouth doesn't look so small anymore."

"Actually, it's the bust… boust… push-up corset thing. Christ. Where did you get that…” he waved vague circles in front of her breasts “...outfit?”

“From a very grateful former lover,” she said, then sipped the whiskey.

John blinked. "Right," he said.

Molly smiled. "Enjoying yourself? I certainly am."

\+  +  +

John shook off Molly’s baffling response.  He felt very magnanimous in his inebriation, having just come off a most satisfactory bump-and-grind near the stereo with some woman from the Met’s traffic division. Or possibly she worked for the Royal Mail. He was unclear.

"I,” he declared loudly, “am having fff _fun._ " He swept his hand forward to grab the Macallan bottle and missed by a narrow margin. Molly helpfully pushed it forward into his trajectory and he snagged it on the next fly-by.

He pushed his beret back from his flushed face -- _fuck, it's hot in here --_ and unbuttoned a couple of the buttons on his desert camouflage shirt.  He cast an eye again over Molly’s, er, costume. Molly raised an eyebrow. John decided it was more than he felt like coping with at the moment so he just gave her what he was sure was a saucy wink, but may have been a drunken leer. Hard to tell from the inside. She raised both eyebrows.

Pointing a finger-gun at her in goodbye, he spun in place with no military precision whatsoever and sloped off into the party, gripping the whiskey and aiming for the sofa in a dim back corner where Greg Lestrade sat, head thrown back, eyepatch on his forehead and his frilly pirate shirt askew.

"Scallywag!" Greg shouted, one eye sighting down his arm to his pointer finger, which circled the air in front of John's nose.  "Hand over the booty, Cap'n!"

"Yes sir, Cap'n," John saluted, flopping gracelessly down next to Greg, the impact causing them to fall into each other. Greg waved his hand vaguely at the loud party several feet away and said “How are you finding the wenches, m’lad?”

“The _wenches_ ,” John declared, “the _wenches_ are … _brilliant_.”  Perhaps word had gotten around that Greg “Silver Fox” Lestrade was newly single, or maybe there were more hot women in civil service than John realized, but he was definitely enjoying the view of some of the costumes this evening.

Satisfied, he tipped the bottle to his mouth and let the smooth whiskey fill it, wiggling his tongue around in it before swallowing.

Greg gaped.  "Are you... are you fuck-... are you _fucking_ drinking my 100 quid scotch  _out of the fucking bottle_ , mate?"

John smacked his lips.  "Yeh."

Greg snorted with laughter. "That's a fucking  _crime_ , jeezus, give, givit'ere..."  Greg raised his head and brought the bottle to his mouth, pouring just a sip in. He let his head fall back to the sofa, eyes closed, and rolled the whiskey around in his mouth before swallowing.  God, that … looked really good, actually. John’s mouth opened a little.  Greg did it again then opened his eyes halfway, lazily.  "Mmmm. That's ... what?"

John brought his gaze up from Greg's mouth with some difficulty. "Noth – wh? – just – here, gimme."  

Greg handed the bottle over with a smile that only tipped the left half of his mouth up. John couldn’t seem to control his eyeballs, which kept drifting down to Greg’s … mouth and the, the thing, the dip between the collar bones... John’s a doctor, he _knows the name_ of the … thing.  John mirrored Greg’s crooked grin and, looking fixedly at Greg’s _eyes_ , thank you, brought the neck of the bottle to his lips, tipping in just enough to fill the cup of his tongue. He let it trickle down the back of his throat. "Mmmmm," he hummed. "That  _is_  better." Greg's grin faded and his half-lidded eyes followed the movement of John's throat, then dragged slowly up to John’s mouth, then met John’s stare.

John licked his lips.  "Greg."

Greg slowly brought his head up and shifted his body to face John, leaning into his space. Not breaking their gaze, he put his hand over John's where it gripped the bottle and brought it to his lips.  He slid his fingers down to John's wrist and rested them there lightly, letting the other man pour scotch into his open mouth.  John's hand twitched a little and a small amount dribbled down Greg’s chin. Before he could even think about it, John swiped it with his finger and put it in his mouth, sucking.  Greg swallowed. John slowly set the bottle down on the floor.

Greg drifted even closer.  “I,” he stammered. "I, I don't, I haven't..."

"No," murmured John,  _God_ , _Greg's_ mouth _, it was right_ ... "me, me neither..." and he closed that little distance and pressed his lips to Greg's.

 _Shit,_ thought John, a bubble of panic working up his throat, _what’m I … what’re we …_ but the panic melted into a rather embarrassing little half-whimper, half-sigh sound. As if it were a signal, Greg breathed deep and tilted his head, pressing into the kiss and opening his mouth. At that familiar cue, John curled his tongue around Greg’s, tasting the slight vanilla of the Macallan. He closed his lips around Greg’s tongue and sucked gently, pulling a needy sound from him. They broke apart a few inches, their breath mingling between them.

“Yeah, I dunno what that was,” said Greg. “But.” He twisted himself a little more towards John, his leg folding underneath him tentatively.

“Yeah,” John said breathily, turning in, pulling his knee onto the sofa. “Yeah, just. Um.” He leaned in and their mouths met again. John made an indecisive twitch forwards, as did Greg, and they pulled apart.

There was a frozen moment. Each man realized that the next move in this scenario was usually for him to shift up and over, guiding the lucky lady down to a more comfy horizontal position for ease of heavier petting. John rose up slightly onto his knee; Greg did the same. Awkward pause. Greg eased back down; John did the same. They both smiled sheepishly.

“I’m … older. So.” Greg ventured. “And taller.”

John said nothing, so Greg rose up again halfway but paused, uncertain and off-balance. Suddenly, John pulled his knee under him, heaved forward and shouldered Greg backwards until he hit the cushions with an exhaled “ _whoof."_

“I’m better trained,” John said with a wolfish grin, propped above Greg with a hand on either side of his head. “And I know better than to hesitate.”

“Christ, mate,” Greg breathed. “That was fucking _hot_.” And he grabbed the front of John’s shirt and pulled him down to his elbows and into a sloppy, enthusiastic snog. The combined sudden motions sloshed John’s pickled brain around and he remembered that he was well pissed. He giggled into Greg’s mouth. Greg huffed out his nose and his mouth began to stretch into a smile. The kiss dissolved into snorting laughs against each other’s necks.

“Oh god.” John’s voice shook with high-pitched laughter. “Oh my _god_.”

“I know!” Greg guffawed into John’s collar.

“Can you imagine if anyone, can you, christ, _Sherlock’s_ _face_ ,” John howled.

“No! No! Fucking -- fucking _Anderson_ ,” Greg cried and wiped tears from his eyes. Every time the wave seemed to be calming, they looked into each other’s eyes and started again. Greg slapped his palm against the cushions and John pressed his forehead against Greg’s shoulder as they quaked. He took off his beret and wiped his face on it. After a few moments the laughter smoothed out into chuckles, and then into smiles.

“Hey,” John murmured, feeling warm and loose and just a little dizzy.

“Hey.” Still smiling, Greg slowly reached up and put his hand on the back of John’s head and drew him down for a kiss. It was slow and sweet, lips brushing and catching, unhurried. Greg opened his lips a bit, moved the tip of his tongue against the inside of John’s bottom lip. John hummed and circled Greg’s tongue with his own. Greg pulled him in harder and their mouths opened more, tongues sliding against each other lazily, then with more urgency.

John moaned. This was… he needed more of this. He slid his thigh between Greg’s and Greg crooked his knee a bit, pushing up against John’s crotch. John inhaled sharply through his nose. Greg slid his hand in a slow line down John’s spine and when he got to John’s lower back, he pushed down, drawing him in. John relaxed his limbs, let himself press his weight onto Greg and they groaned into each other’s mouths.

Alcohol be damned, John was fully hard now. He pressed his cock into Greg’s hip, rolling his own so his thigh pressed against … oh god, that was … ok, he’d never been on this side of an erection before. He did it again and Greg arched up, panting, wanton. John was electrified. He slid his other leg over Greg’s knee and wriggled his hips in between Greg’s thighs, which parted further. He dragged his cock slowly up Greg’s.

“ _Oh_ ,” John gasped.

“That’s … _unnh_.” Greg tilted his head back, squeezing his eyes shut. He slid both hands down to John’s arse and pulled him in, harder. John dropped his face into Greg’s hot neck and groaned. He thrust a little faster and began to pant. Greg drew his knees up and put his feet flat on the sofa – his feet in _pirate boots_ – and he pushed up in counterpoint to John. Greg’s mouth was open and he was grunting “ _unh, unh, unh_.” Loudly. He was _noisy_.

“ _Shhh_ ,” John hissed against Greg’s lips. “Mate, seriously.”

“Fuck, _John_ ,” Greg groaned, oblivious, and then as if the idea had occurred to both of them at the same time, they pulled apart and scrabbled at their flies, pulling up shirts – Greg’s _ridiculous_ fluffy shirt – and pushing and pulling pants out of the way.

With an abrupt movement, Greg used the leverage of his feet and hips to flip John, who suddenly found himself on the inside of the sofa, crowded against the seat back.

“What –“ John yelped.

“Ha!” Greg crowed. “ _Taller_.”

“Also more of a _fucking wanker_.” John’s dominant left hand was now trapped under Greg’s side. Goddammit, this was _not optimal_. He tried to yank his arm out and square up but Greg was apparently trying to push him through the cushions with his right hipbone. Which was digging painfully into John's abdomen.

“Ugh, _let me_ , you tosser,” John argued, grappling Greg back far enough to wiggle into place so they’d meet at–

“ _MNGUH_.” Greg made a loud guttural noise as the stars finally aligned and so did their cocks.

“Oh my god, will you _shhh_?”

Greg huffed. “Are you always this _whingey_?”

At this, John pressed his mouth hard against Greg’s, sliding his tongue in, wet and hot. Greg’s hands reached back to squeeze John’s arse, then his free arm hooked under John’s thigh and hauled it up over his hip. He reached up and gripped the top of the sofa. Before John could say anything, his breath was taken away as Greg used the hand on John’s arse and the hand braced on the sofa to thrust them together, _hard._

“OH fuck,” John gasped. His arm flailed around Greg until it finally found purchase on the back of Greg’s shirt, which John gripped like he was falling. The skin to skin contact wasn’t perfect; clothes bunched around their cocks and rubbed in ways that was just this side of maddening. John tightened his leg around Greg’s hip, the heel of his combat boot squeaking against the calf of Greg’s pirate boot. Greg thrust up hard again and John tightened reflexively – _squeak_. Grunt, thrust, _squeak_. Grunt, thrust, _squeak_.

“Ok, that’s just fucking distracting,” John complained.

“What,” Greg gasped, thrust, _squeak_.

“That! Your stupid leather or – thing –“

“V- vinyl.” Thrust, _squeak_.

“— boots, are making that stupid –“

“Jesus christ, _forget the fucking noise_ ,” Greg snapped, tightening his grip on the back of the sofa and beginning to thrust with intent. Their cocks slid together, clothes rubbing; when they managed to meet skin to skin it sent a tongue of fire up John’s spine. It was starting to coalesce for him, he felt it drawing together, the pleasure coiling up.

“Yeah, yes, _fuck_ , keep – don’t –“ John gasped. His hand fisted harder in Greg’s shirt. Greg pressed his face into John’s hair and honest-to-God _whimpered_. John filed that sound away to revisit later for wanking purposes. The spring coiled tighter in John’s groin and _finally– finally–_

“ _AH,_ ” John choked. “Ye– oh– god _Greg–”_ Pleasure poured through his body and he shut his eyes tightly and pressed his head back hard against the sofa as he rode it out, feeling the warm wetness spread between them.

“Fucking … fucking gorgeous,” Greg panted, his breath hot over John’s ear. His thrusts were frantic, erratic. John dug his fingers into the damp hair at Greg’s nape and tugged, tipping his head back and exposing his neck. John pressed his mouth against Greg’s throat and _sucked_ –

“ _Fuck!_ Oh, _oh_ –“ Greg froze for a long moment and John felt him pulsing between them; Greg let out a ragged little cut-off exhalation with each one. Slowly the tension left him and he relaxed, then stilled. They were both breathing hard. When they’d calmed enough, John lifted his chin and bumped his nose along Greg’s jawline until he reached his mouth, where he placed a long, slow kiss.

“So.” Greg gently touched their noses together. “That happened."

“That was, um.”

“Unexpected?”

“Ha, yeah.”

Greg leaned back, and as they moved their bodies apart to judge the damage, someone dropped a glass with a crash and cheers rose up. Awareness of the party happening around them flooded back in. _Shit!_

Greg jumped off him like a scalded cat and John quickly did up his flies and buttoned his shirt as Greg pulled his own clothing together. John looked around quickly, mortified. The sofa had been shoved into this corner to clear up floor space and was just far back enough to be in partial shadow. Lying down, they’d been shielded from the room by the arm. Besides, it had to be nearing midnight and everyone was pretty pissed. He sighed in relief and looked down at himself. His untucked shirt would hide most of the evidence for him, but Greg was screwed with his thin cotton pirate shirt and tight trousers. But then, this _was_ his house.

John reached down and retrieved the bottle of whiskey.

“All right?” he asked Greg, taking a little sip to hide his awkwardness.

Greg cleared his throat. “Right, yeah. All right. I’m just going to –“ he gestured down at himself vaguely. “I’ll, um …?”

“Yeah! Yeah,” John nodded. He discovered his phone between the cushions and fiddled it into his pocket.  His eyes were burning a bit and he was suddenly exhausted.

“See you at the…” Greg trailed off.

“Yep, see you.” John watched Greg walk away with the ungainly stride of the uncomfortably wet. He took another sip of the Macallan and put it back down. His eyes were blurring with tiredness and now that the excitement had faded, he could feel his body succumbing to the lethal combination of booze and sex. _Just for a minute,_ he thought, stretching back out on the sofa.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we invent a new pairing: Sarally! Happy Halloween! BOO!

October 31

11:37 pm

 

Greg stood up and shuffled off, holding his shirt a bit away from his body. Right, a change. The… er… had cleared his head somewhat, but he still wasn’t entirely steady on his feet as he headed toward the stairs to his bedroom. He was concentrating a little too much on the placement of each step when he banged into a purposeful-looking Sally Donovan. In a bobby’s uniform.

 “Heeeeey, Sally. What, you came dressed … as a copper?” Greg snorted.

Sally gave him an expressionless look that still managed to convey barely suppressed disgust. “No. I’m dressed this way because I’m on shift in,” she glanced down at her phone, “in a couple of hours, helping _street patrol_ because they’re _short handed_ on account of so many people _making merry_ at _fancy dress parties_.”

Greg stared vaguely over her left shoulder, eyes on the prize of the stairway to a dry shirt and pants and an epic piss. “Right, great, well, glad you could make it Sal, see you tomorrow, yeah?” 

Sally laser-eyed a hole in the back of his head as he staggered off. “Yeah. Enjoy. Berk.”

She sighed and headed in the direction of the door, the better to ease out early. It was likely to be a busy night of drunks and arseholes dressed as zombies.

 

\+  +  +

 

Thirty minutes. Thirty minutes more and she'd leave, cool her heels at a coffee shop until she went on duty. Until then, if she stayed by the bathroom, she’d avoid the worst of the party and keep herself clean. Some wanker had dropped a glass of red wine, managing to both shatter the glass on the kitchen tile and spray the wine on Lestrade’s cream-ish carpet. She wasn’t getting on her knees to scrub red wine out of carpet, not with Sherlock in the room. Well, he was here somewhere -- she hadn’t seen him in a while. 

“Did your costume come with handcuffs? Mine didn’t, but we could...share.”

Sally leveled a look at the man in the hen party stripper costume. “I’m not wearing a costume. I’m a detective sergeant with the Met. _Shove off_.”

He muttered an apology and slunk off into the crowd, leaving Sally standing against the wall, a fucking glass of fucking water in her hand, watching the fucking _Halloween party_ that was a slightly manic effort to celebrate Lestrade’s bachelor status after his wife left him. Again. 

Skipping an invitation from the boss was out of the question. She’d rather be at home before she went on duty, but instead she was drinking fucking water and watching men and women too old for this shit try to reclaim a youth lost a decade (or two) earlier. 

Molly, however, unexpectedly looked rather fine. She saw Sally holding up the wall by the loo and winked at her. Sally smiled back.

The redhead across the living room also looked rather fine, in a turquoise silk blouse and a pair of slacks curving prettily around her bottom. She’d come with John, who appeared to have passed out on the sofa. All she could see was one combat boot, jerking in time with the snores rising from behind the sofa’s arm. The redhead looked familiar...oh yes, from that case with the Chinese acrobats smuggling stolen antiquities. After their eyes met for the third time, she crossed the living room.

“Hello,” she said. She wore a pair of heels, and Sally wore sturdy Oxfords, as was suitable for a shift on her feet, so they were almost of a height. “You look familiar. I’m Sarah Sawyer, a friend of John’s.”

“I remember you, from the tunnel. Sally Donovan.”

“Oh, yes. Ms. Calm-in-a-Crisis while Sherlock stalks about, ranting deductions, and John stares at him like an obsessed sixth-former.”

Sally giggled, then gestured at the costumed party-goers. “And who are you supposed to be?” 

“I’m a doctor who just went off duty after a twelve hour shift,” Sarah said ruefully.

“Left the white coat in the car?”

“I’m too tired to put up with let’s play doctor jokes,” Sarah said.

Sally smiled in commiseration and tipped her glass against Sarah’s wine glass, and tried not to stare too obviously at the notch between Sarah’s collarbones or the swell of her breasts, just visible through the placket of her silk blouse. Instead she focused on the increasingly raucous party.

“Why do I get the feeling we’re the only two adults in this room?”

“Molly Hooper looks pretty adult to me,” Sarah said, startling another giggle from Sally. “Because we are,” she added.

“Too grown-up to play doctor,” Sally confirmed, firmly squelching the hint of regret.

“I’m not that grown-up,” Sarah said, smiling a little without making eye contact. “I’m just choosy about my playmates.”

Sally’s heart kicked hard in her chest. “Yes,” she stammered. “Of course.”

There was a short silence while they watched Molly reject the advances of the stripper-PC. “Going off duty, or on?”

“On,” Sally said, glad for the conversation diversion.

“You’re a brave woman, showing up at a costume party in uniform.”

“I’d rather be at home with my vibrator, but Lestrade’s my boss.”

Did she really just say that? She wasn’t even drunk. Stone cold sober, in fact, but still cheesed off, which was, for Sally, no better than pissed.

“Ah.” One corner of Sarah’s mouth lifted. “Shall we see if we can get you in a better frame of mind before you take on the mean streets of London?”

“I can’t drink,” Sally said.

“I’m not drinking, either,” Sarah said. “I’m driving. But there are other ways to unwind after a long day, or gear up for one,” she said, and tipped her head towards the empty loo. "Shall we?"

Confidence without arrogance...such a delightful, arousing change. “Oh, yes, please,” she said.

Sarah shut out the party noise by closing the door, then backed Sally against the wall. Sally inhaled sharply, her training compelling her to shove back. You didn't make it as a London police officer without learning to stand your ground. Experience, the memory of Sherlock's taunts, Anderson's lies, her own bad judgement all flooded back in an instant, making her second-guess the sincerity of the offer. She put her hands at Sarah's wrists. 

Sarah stopped. Tilted her head. Smiled her sweet smile that now held just a hint of wicked, which stopped Sally's heart in her chest because there wasn't even a hint of condescension or derision in those pretty blue eyes. It took a moment for Sally to recognize the look. People treated female coppers one of two ways: obsequiously or like she was a challenge, a mountain to climb, a tick on the scorecard. Sarah looked at her like she was an equal. A person. 

She relaxed her grip, implicitly giving permission. Sarah opened the buttons on Sally’s uniform jacket and shirt, then cupped her breasts. Sally's head dropped back against the wall as she arched into the touch. Sarah rubbed her thumbs over the silk bra cups while she took thirty seconds to discover the perfect pressure, then added a slow, firm pinch to Sally's nipples.

"Oh, that’s lovely," Sally sighed.

Sarah made a little humming noise, confident under the light purr. She reached down and unfastened Sally’s uniform trousers and worked trousers and knickers down, exposing hips and thighs just enough to work her hand into the soft heat between her legs. Sally tried to spread her legs, and couldn’t.

“Oh, God,” she said, and let her head drop back against the wall. She wove the fingers of one hand into Sarah’s soft fall of hair, and gripped her hip with the other. Sarah started to grind against Sally’s thigh, her fingertips moving against Sally’s clit, then dipping lower, inside. The heel of her hand provided constant pressure on her clit, and those fingers, deft and knowing, brushed her G-spot. Sally curled up into the contact, whimpered for more, got it. Sarah's breath grazed her mouth, teasing, promising until Sally flicked her tongue out, daring. Her reward was an impertinent nip to her lower lip, then a wet flick, then breathing on the damp, abused skin, setting the nerves alight. 

"Can you come like this?" Sally gasped.

"Oh, yes," Sarah replied. Her slick-soled heels skidded on the tiled floor as she pushed closer, the firm weight of her breasts against Sally’s. Sally felt it in her clit, in her lips, in the tips of her fingers. Her uniform shirt smeared against Sarah's silk blouse, tugging it askew.

God, this was insane.

Sarah braced her feet and rubbed her hips in time to the movement of her fingers in Sally’s cunt. Sally tightened her grip hard enough to leave fingerprint bruises on that pale English skin, felt pleasure surge up, up, until her throat tightened and the dam burst.

"Yes, oh yes," she husked, retaining enough situational awareness to mute her cries. Sarah simply bent her head forward and sobbed into Sally's open collar.

Sally let her hands relax. Sarah stepped back, pulled Sally's blouse down, and patted her hip. Then she looked at Sally, holding her gaze for a few seconds.

"Better," Sarah said decisively.

The eye contact was more intimate than the sex. Sally felt her cheeks heat, then a rather idiotic smile broke on her face.

"You're beautifully responsive," Sarah said as she ran her thumb over Sally's mouth. "I'm sorry we don't have more time. 

"I'm out for tonight," Sally agreed, and screwed up her courage, because she was a detective sergeant and Sarah was a bloody doctor, but that really was the hottest sex she’d had in ages. “Coffee later?"

"Love to."

That was almost as easy as Sally. "I thought you were..." she tipped her head towards the party but implying John, who, last she’d seen, was crashed on the sofa.

"John slept on the lilo," Sarah said. "Text me. Please."

Sally cracked the door and peered out, then wasted no time loping out the door and down the steps, whistling cheerfully. Perhaps parties weren’t so bad after all.

 

+

 

Sarah surreptitiously straightened her clothes, then took one last look around the party. Sherlock looked like he'd been hit by a brick, although the level of wine in his glass appeared unchanged. His shirt was buttoned correctly but his collar failed to hide what appeared to be parallel scrapes running from under his jaw to his collarbone. Molly laughed gaily, and Sherlock’s gaze jerked in her direction at the sound. Lestrade was nowhere to be found. And John...John was unconscious on the sofa. She walked past him to claim her handbag from the spare room. She sniffed, then wrinkled her nose. Someone got lucky in that room, no doubt about it.

Back in the living room she looked for her host to say her goodbyes. Lestrade was nowhere to be found. John was now snoring, and he smelled like...well, he smelled.  "Three Continents Watson, down for the count,” she said, and let herself out. 


	4. Epilogue

1 November  
1:29 a.m.

John woke with a snort and wiped the drool off his chin with his cuff. He felt like he’d been run over. His trousers were crusty. His mouth tasted like stale whiskey and questionable choices. God, he was too old for this.

He sat up slowly and creakily and heaved himself to his feet. Home. It was definitely time for home. Where the fuck was Sherlock?

The party was dwindling, only the hard-core drunkards were left. Greg was nowhere in sight. His shoulders relaxed a bit. He’d … think about that later. Sherlock was lurking against the far wall, next to a potted plant, fiddling with his phone and looking twitchy. He headed towards him.

“Hey,” he croaked, then grimaced and cleared his throat. “Hey.”

Sherlock looked him over quickly and made a face. “You’re ready to leave.”

“Excellently deduced.” Sherlock looked uncharacteristically rumpled. “What’ve you been doing, anyway?”

Sherlock’s face twitched minutely and then blanked. “Nothing. What’ve you been doing?”

John really hoped he wasn’t blushing. He gave Sherlock an even look and said, “Nothing. Ready to go?”

“Hours ago. Let’s get out of here.” 

\+ + +

 

1 November  
3:16 p.m.

Sherlock banged through the morgue doors with characteristic flourish, John following behind at a slower pace.

“What do you have for me, Lestrade,” Sherlock demanded, beelining right for the body of a young blond woman on the table. Greg and Sally stood on the other side, Sally with her arms crossed, looking slightly bored and unusually relaxed.

“Sherlock, nice to see you too,” Greg said wryly. “And, um. John.”

“Greg.” Their eyes met briefly then skittered away.

“Yes, yes, we all know each other,” Sherlock said impatiently. “Who is this?”

“Tara Poole. Thirty-two. Missing for five weeks from her home in East Barnet, turned up yesterday in the boot of a hired Vauxhall in a carpark in Battersea.”

Sherlock tsked. “Well, what’s so interesting about this that you dragged me out of…” He stopped abruptly and stiffened when the door opened and Molly came through.

She was wearing a green knit jumper with kittens on and her hair was pulled back in a clip. “Hi,” she said brightly, “how are you all today? Lovely party, Detective Inspector, I hope everyone’s recovered. John? You all right?”

“What,” John started. “Yes, fine, thanks, good.”

“Only you look a little peaky. When I left the party you were on the sofa.”

At this both John and Greg jumped as if they’d been pricked by pins and John stammered “Wh- what?”

“You were asleep. On the sofa. Did you stay there all night, or did you get home ok?”

“Of course I didn’t stay there all night,” John snapped. “Why would I stay at… why wouldn’t I go home, that’s… Sherlock and I went home, right? Sherlock?”

Sherlock failed to answer as he was staring openly at Molly. Possibly at one of the kittens. Molly dimpled at him.

“Right,” said Greg, clearing his throat, “so the cause of death– “

“Don’t feel bad John,” said Sally with a mocking smile, “you weren’t the only one rat-arsed. I ran into the guv here on my way out and he was walking sideways, wasn’t he. What’d you spill all down your front anyway you were soa-“

“CAN WE PLEASE,” Greg raised his voice, “get back to the task at hand?”

Sally shrugged and waved her hand at Molly to continue. “Oh! Yes. Well, there was quite a lot of water in her lungs, which would indicate that she drowned but there weren’t any signs on the body that she’d been immersed for any length of time. Yet I tested the water, and it's brackish. Um,” Molly looked up. “Brackish is water that’s got a higher salinity than fresh but isn’t full–“

“Yes, thank you Molly for that definition,” Sherlock cut in, looking down at his phone. “I think we can all be trusted to know what brackish means and if not, there are dictionary apps. Did you, by any chance, think to test the level of salinity, which might give us a clue as to where along the river…” Sherlock’s voice trailed off as he raised his head to look at Molly, who was leveling a very cool look at him. He blinked twice and clapped his mouth shut.

“Yes, thank you, I did test the levels, this _is_ my job.” Molly continued after a moment, her customary smile returning. “Of course I know you’ll want to look at them yourself so I set you up a station in the lab. Coffee?”

“Er,” Sherlock recovered himself. “Yes, black with two sugars, I’ll take it up in–“

“Milk and one sugar in mine, thanks,” Molly said, turning away and heading for the doors. “I’ll meet you upstairs, you know where the coffee is right, down the hall? Lovely.” 

Sherlock stood rooted to his spot for a moment, then turned to find three gaping faces staring at him. “I’ll just, ah…” He waved his hand at the door then turned and rather stiffly followed Molly out.

A gobsmacked silence reigned for several minutes and when it seemed apparent that neither of the men was planning to break it, Sally said, cheerfully, “Well, I worked graveyard last night so if you two don’t mind, I’m off. Boss, I’ll check in at … what’s wrong with you two?”

John and Greg were wearing identical looks of suppressed panic until they both schooled their features to casualness.

“Rrrrright,” Sally said slowly. “Well then. Later.” And she walked out the doors as well, missing the look of dismay both men wore when they were suddenly left alone.

“So…”  
“I…”

Awkward pause.

“You, uh,” began Greg, “you… planning to watch the match this weekend?”

“Oh, yeah,” John said with relief. “Yeah, I played rugby myself you know, in uni. Love the rugby. So you planning on cheering Wales to a glorious victory over the Italians, then?”

“Oh well, promises to be a good match anyway, and I’ve got that big flat screen and no wife to tell me how boring it is, so I'm just going to crash out on the sof–“ 

Awkward pause.

John cleared his throat. “Uh, yeah, Sherlock is a pain in the arse when I try to watch it at home, so I’ll probably just, you know, go down the pub.”

“Oh? Well, I mean, if you want, you could…” Greg hesitated. “It’s just going to be me there, so… but you probably don’t…”

“No, yeah, that’d be, that’d be great!” John said quickly, then flushed.

Greg smiled. “Yeah? Ok, good, that’ll be… good.”

“Right, well, I should probably follow Sherlock up to the lab, he’s probably…”

“Yeah, yeah, I gotta go into the… so Saturday then, ‘round two? We could get takeaway or…”

“That’d be brilliant yeah, great.”

They were both smiling at their shoes as the morgue doors closed behind them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ten points to Gryffindor if you can find the Cabin Pressure reference in this chapter. :)

**Author's Note:**

> Chapter one by NoStraightLine.  
> Chapter two by Justgot1.  
> Chapter three by NoStraightLine.  
> Epilogue by Justgot1.


End file.
